There are some discographic
counter-factuals that really grip. How,
for instance, would we have looked on
the performance histories of the Beethoven
Piano Sonatas if Rachmaninov, not Schnabel,
had set down the first complete cycle
for HMV in the 1930s. He was certainly
asked and just as certainly turned down
the idea; he wasn’t daunted by the prospect
so much as disappointed by the fee.
Schnabel was cheaper (and no great idolater
of the Russian either). And how about
the Elgar and Debussy recordings he
could have made as a conductor; what
would Rachmaninov’s take have been on,
say, La Mer or the Enigma
Variations?

Thankfully Rachmaninov
on disc is not really a study in frustration.
Since the RCA Red Seal 10 disc set is
currently languishing, out of print,
in the vaults we do not, at the moment,
have a Complete Edition derived from
source material. So Vista Vera are serving
admirers well with this set which restores
to circulation the majority of his discs
(no acoustic Second Concerto for example
and none of the Edisons) in transfers
that – see below for more details –
I think are at best serviceable but
will do only as a stop-gap.

The leonine aristocracy
of Rachmaninov’s playing, the perception
that this is playing unfettered by limitation
either digital or technical, is present
throughout these discs. They reflect
an aesthetic that is frequently personalised
to a remarkable degree, most especially
in Mozart and Schubert, but that can
be channelled with remarkable imagination
and flair when joined by a personality
of equal stature – in this case Kreisler
in their sonata recordings.

His Victor-RCA recordings
were made over a twenty-three year period,
from 1919 to1942. The clarity of his
voicings in Bach was legendary, the
absorption of the violinistic by the
pianistic in the Partita BWV 1006 a
marvel of creativity and suggestibility.
Yet when he moved from elevated Bach
to hyphenated Scarlatti-Tausig his capricious
rhythm was equally captivating and his
Harmonious Blacksmith, another plaything
for Golden Age pianists, emerges as
deliberate and clear and not at all
hammered out, gathering strength as
it goes, reaching that single apex of
Rachmaninovian intensity. His Mozart
(two movements from K311) is gloriously
romantic, full of sly humour and utterly
indefensible - with a Rondo alla turca
that defines the word emphatic as well
as any dictionary. The Gluck-Sgambati
is beautifully done and without much
pedal (as is the temptation) – though
it doesn’t, for me, efface Egon Petri.
And yet as if to confound the issue
his 1925 Beethoven-Rubinstein Turkish
March does use quite some pedal but
manages effortlessly to highlights the
saucy humour.

It’s impossible to
pick highlights from amongst these eight
discs but let’s try his Liszt Hungarian
Rhapsody No.2 with Rachmaninov’s own
cadenza. There’s some exceptional half
pedal, perfectly audible in this 1919
acoustic, with swathes of colour and
virtuosity, incredible glowering bass
and a daredevil drama a-plenty. His
Gnomenreigen grows inexorably to become
all enveloping, his Kreisler transcription
of Liebesfreud comes complete with thunderous
rococo charm, bass extensions and an
air of naughtiness and he teases Liebeslied
similarly, not least the left hand line.
He animates Debussy’s Golliwog’s Cakewalk
with teasing rubati and fulsomeness
and brings Scarlatti to bear on Paderewski’s
Minuet. His Chopin is full of freedom,
metrical and, it must be said, textual.
Not everyone will respond wholeheartedly
to his playing, but even those who shy
away from Rachmaninov’s personality-rich
playing will surely be captivated by
something, by some detail or subtlety.
The strata of tone colours and rubati
of the Third Ballade, for instance.
Or the lullaby-like E flat major Nocturne,
with its unimpeachable trill, the tied
bass notes and his control of piano.
The F sharp major may have some
idiosyncratic things amidst the magnificence
of the decorative runs but, as so often
with Rachmaninov, doubt is stilled;
for all the personalisation, it makes
sense. There’s hardly any pedal in the
Waltz in E flat major – the mechanism
is under perfect clarity and control
at a relatively sedate tempo (and hear
the piano "laugh" so suggestively).
For Rachmaninov, truly, each note has
its meaning. Throughout his Chopin recordings
one feels Rachmaninov’s articulation
and rhythm as indissoluble components
of his true greatness in the repertoire.
Indeed colouristically and textually
he is fascinating – try the A minor
Mazurka – even when he is at his most
capricious and the locus classicus of
that is his 1930 recording of the B
flat minor Sonata. Here he extends the
finale in a way not sanctioned – shall
we say – by Chopin but the result is
one of uplifting power, with Rachmaninov
sculpting waves of impetus and not an
undifferentiated mf all the way
through. For all its recasting his performance
of the sonata embraces all its moods,
all its power and all its romance.

Schubert can be problematical
with Rachmaninov. The Impromptu is very
fluent, too much so, but his Schumann
is often touched by the Gods, for all
its idiosyncrasy. Der Kontrabandiste
is dazzling and his Mendelssohn scintillates;
the Scherzo from A Midsummer Night’s
Dream rivals Moiseiwitsch’s legendary
performance. But the greatest focus
of interest in the Schubert-Mendelssohn-Schumann
axis that forms Volume 8 in this series
is on Carnaval. For all that he may
appear to exaggerate emotive states,
to plunge headlong into the dance, to
tease and taunt, Rachmaninov always
remains humanly alive to Schumann’s
inspiration. His Preamble is powerful
but quick, with lashings of subtly inflected
rubati, the accents in Pierrot tough.
Eusabius pleads insinuatingly but with
delicacy, Florestan is riven with leonine
drama – the constant accelerandi and
slowings down dizzying in their complexity
if not always naturalness. Coquette
here is no easy flirt; the rubati are
positively aggressive and insistent
and Rachmaninov includes Sphinxes –
truly sinister and horribly prescient.
Chopin is nobly aloof, the Valse allemande
truly witty and the concluding Marche
resplendently triumphant. For all that
you may take against it, or resist it,
or find it stretched beyond normal bounds
this is a Carnaval for all recorded
time.

All this of course,
without mentioning Rachmaninov playing
his own works though here I think much
less is needed. The Concerto performances
are still the fons et origo for pianists,
which they must either internalise,
absorb or reject. The performances demonstrate,
by their compelling control and sense
of architecture, just how to release
those moments of romantic effulgence
that most pianists spend their lives
sentimentalising. It was a musical gift
his poker faced compatriot and colleague
Moiseiwitsch absorbed and that Rachmaninov
so admired in him. Stokowski is an adept
marshal in the Second – that glorious
Philadelphia string cantilever in the
first movement, the wind counterpoint
in the slow movement. Then there are
those lessons in weight and rhythmic
control in the finale – the naturalness
of propulsion that was so inherent a
part of his musical mechanism. Then
there’s the sheer savoir-faire of the
Paganini Variations, the lissom drama
and nobility enshrined within. The First
Concerto similarly has the most acute
sense of direction, drama and lyricism
held in perfect balance whilst the famous
Fourth’s tempestuous drive is nevertheless
accompanied by the unravelling of the
beautiful wind writing (in Rachmaninov’s
performances time becomes elastic).
The Third has a bright, steady and not
at all introverted opening – nothing
self-conscious or specious at all. The
peaks of phrases sound unarguably right
as we listen and the clarity of passagework
in the slow movement is Olympian and
flawless. Especially valuable in this
respect is Volume 7 in which, apart
from the single and superb playing of
Scriabin’s Prelude Op.11 No.8 we hear
essentially all-Rachmaninov and some
of the Preludes and Etude- tableaux
in particular. The rapt and starkly
romantic Melodie Op.3 No.3 is an object
lesson in narrative tension (he plays
the revision) – a quite wonderful performance
by the way full of myriad subtleties
– and the famous Polka de V.R. shows
how nudge-nudge playing, beloved of
some, is no substitute for the finesse,
control and a kind of aristocratic aloofness
that the composer displays here. Throughout
these recordings voicings, colour, depth
of lyricism and digital command are
all harnessed to optimum effect. Declamatory
and leonine power flow throughout the
Prelude Op.32 No.3 but really it’s invidious
to single out any particular performance.

The authorial voice
we hear conducting the Isle of the Dead
is intensely purposely but dramatic,
powerful and tense. This famous recording
and that of the Third Symphony show
what we have missed through the restrictions
on his conducting for RCA Victor. But
enough remains to make a study of this
body of work both necessary and important
– both for students of Rachmaninov and
for admirers of the repertoire and great
pianism. As I said the transfers leave
something to be desired. Too much top
has been excised leaving a rather bland
uniformity of sound. In an attempt to
mitigate the sound limitations of the
late acoustics in particular Vista Vera
has removed shellac hiss at the expense
of treble frequencies, The Concerto
recordings, too, lack the brightness
and immediacy we now expect from these
discs (see Naxos). I can’t necessarily
recommend these discs then on those
grounds – we must wait for a recommendably
transferred set from authoritative source
material - but a pianophile without
Rachmaninov’s recordings should not
really sleep at night.

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